Unlikely Angel
by Clopin K. Trouillefou
Summary: Erik rescues a Gypsy girl from drowning in his lake after she accidentally slipped in. His unending loneliness drives him to nurse her, but there's something familiar about her...
1. That Night

As he stood watching, after Raoul and Christine left, their voices echoing as they sang a duet, the doors of his home burst open. He turned as the angry mob of the opera's cast rushed in, headed by the two managers.

"There he is!" Firmin shouted, "The Opera Ghost!"

"You shall pay dearly," Andre put in, "for the havoc you have wreaked upon this opera!"

"I think not, my dear _Messieurs_," the Ghost said and turned to escape.

"We would differ, Phantom," Firmin returned as their foe found himself surrounded.

Two men of the cast grabbed the Phantom from behind and allowed the others to punch him out until he doubled over in silent pain. They released him, the menace collapsing to the floor onto his knees, his face contorted into a pained grimace. As he held his arms over his sore gut, someone kicked him full in the face, forcing him flat onto his back. The assault on the Phantom of the Opera continued. Much as he tried, he could not fight back nor defend himself. Though he got in a few blows of his own, he could not hold them off long enough to draw his dagger and get to his feet.

Finally after an hour and what seemed an eternity to the infamous Ghost, there was a break.

"Let us see," one of the male chorus members said, "what lies beneath this mask of his."

He felt two strong men grab his arms and drag his beaten form to his knees, the male chorus member lifting his head up to tear away the mask.

"Wait!" Carlotta cried, "Let me do it! I will be the first to see who has continuously ruined my performances!"

The large Prima Donna came forward and tore away the white leather, a scream of disgust and horror escaping her lips. One of the men holding the Ghost took hold of his thick black hair and forced his head back for all to see his deformed face. The mob backed away in disgust, each with expressions of horror.

"Good Lord," Firmin gasped, his hand in front of his face, "That face…"

"He's hideous!" Carlotta got out.

Andre remained silent, gaping at the sight of their tormentor's face, staying just behind Firmin.

"Leave him be," he whispered.

"What?" Firmin turned to face his partner.

"Are you mad?" one of the opera's cast exclaimed.

"Look at him!" Andre continued, "Look at the creature! Perhaps we have done enough."

"Andre, you are surely mad!" Firmin glared at him, "This man… this monster has caused us havoc, wreaked destruction and cost us money! We have been blackmailed by him and coerced into obeying his demands, bowing to his every whim, indulging his fancies… in short we have been forced to run the opera his way!"

"Firmin," Andre went on, "Mother Nature has inflicted more damage than we ever could. Surely by what we have done to him combined with that… face is punishment enough for what he has done."

"This creature has killed!" his elder partner argued, "He murdered Joseph Buquet and Ubaldo Piangi! He must pay, must answer for their deaths! He deserves more than death! I must insist we put the creature out of his and everyone else's misery!"

Firmin approached the Ghost and knelt, lifting the monster's head and stared into the cold, sorrow filled eyes.

"Your reign ends tonight, Phantom," he said quietly, his voice low and threatening.

The elder manager raised his fist and backhanded the man who had destroyed a priceless chandelier and ran the opera through his threatening letters.

Blood spattered on the floor as it filled the Ghost's mouth, gushing from his nose. Firmin's chest heaved as he looked down on the menace, rage building within his breast like a blazing inferno, fuming. He grabbed hold of the lapels of the Phantom's coat, tearing him from the grasp of the two men who'd been holding him. A hollow crack sounded as Firmin slammed the 'monster' against the wall. He held him there, arm against his throat, and punched the supposed spectre as hard as he could in the gut.

"Please…" he pleaded, finding it difficult to breathe past the manager's arm, "stop…"

"Had enough have you?" Firmin queried, "Well, I haven't!"

He backed away, the Opera Ghost sliding to the floor onto his front, gasping for breath thankful for the relief. Suddenly, Firmin placed his foot on his back and applied the whole of his weight, his prisoner crying out in pain.

"_S'il__ vous plait,_" the Phantom wheezed, "The… pain…"

"The pain too much for you now, _non_?" the manager inquired, gently.

"Com…passion," came the strained, painful reply, "I implore you."

"Compassion?" Firmin exclaimed, "You dare ask for compassion?"

He dragged the beaten freak to his feet and threw him against the piano, the keys reverberating with his slight weight as he slid to the floor.

"Where was the compassion when you killed Piangi and Buquet?" the enraged manager demanded, "Answer me that! Where was it when you killed them?!"

"Didn't…" the Ghost said, trying in vain to get up, "kill… Buquet."

"I've had it with you, Phantom!" he returned and turned to the mob, "Finish him, kill him, do whatever you wish with him. Just put the wretched creature out of our misery!"

The mob all too gladly continued beating his already sore, bruised and battered body until they grew weary and he hadn't the strength, until it was too painful to move and they left him for dead…


	2. Search and Rescue

She gazed up at the Opera Populaire, ignoring the stares she gathered from the wealthy Parisians that walked past her. The style of her clothing and the gold hoop in her left ear marked her as a Gypsy and her kind weren't exactly welcome in this part of Paris. A small, sad smile crossed her face, remembering the evenings spent up on the roof, gazing at the stars. That was years ago, when she was a small child of perhaps ten, in 1871. She had spared a man from a mob, touching his hand without fear, though she could see his deformities and for a few years they shared a close bond. But after that last night of stargazing, she never saw her friend again.

_"You see those three stars right there?" the man asked._

_"Yeah," the little girl beside him replied._

_"That's called Orion's Belt, and the whole constellation is Orion," he said._

_"Wow, so where's the Dog Star?" she asked._

_"It's right over there," he pointed to the brightest star in the night sky, "And that constellation is Canis Major, one of Orion's hunting dogs."_

That had been the last conversation and night of stargazing she had ever spent with that man, Erik. She had once loved him dearly, but what had become of him? She didn't know and all these years she missed him dearly; she closed her eye a single tear slipping down her cheek.

But now was not the time for tears, she had come to explore the Opera and trek up to the roof to ponder. She'd never been here during the day or on her own, Erik had always been there, most of the time carrying her. She entered the grand foyer and let her feet and memories lead the way up to the roof where she stood gazing out over the whole of Paris. She wasn't up there long before she turned to leave, her heart heavy with the loss of a dear friend. Without realizing what she was doing or where she was going, she went down one basement to the next until she came to the lake in the very belly of the Opera. She didn't snap from her thoughts until she realized she couldn't see a thing and heard nothing but the sound of water. Groping blindly, struggling to adjust to the darkness and discern something, she came to the edge of the ledge she stood on. But she didn't realize it until it was too late and she lost her footing, falling into the frigid water.

She came up gasping for breath, her teeth chattering with her shivers and swam across the lake until she lost feeling in her arms and legs and could go no farther. She struggled just to stay afloat but the cold was getting to her and she soon sunk beneath the surface. She was losing consciousness, vaguely aware of the muffled splash and blacked out before strong arms grasped her slim form and swam back to the shore. He had been in his lair, staring dejectedly into the blazing flames in his hearth when he'd been startled out of his reverie by an alarm sounding. Someone was on the lake; he had rushed out and saw a small pale form sinking beneath the surface. He threw off his cloak and clothing save for his black trousers and dove in to save whoever it was. The figure he now held in his arms was a young woman, girl rather, probably no more than sixteen. He rushed inside and wrapped her in a warm comforter and laid her on the floor before the blaze.

This girl was wearing a white blouse and the Phantom had kept his eyes averted from her generous bosom. And, though he knew she needed to get out of her wet clothes, he could not bring himself to do it; it was highly improper. So he occupied him self with making some hot tea and soup to help warm her when she woke. He eventually picked her up and laid her on his black leather couch and as he turned to fetch the tea and soup stared down at her. She looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on a name or even her face, but there was something undeniably familiar about her. He returned to her side, laying the tea and soup on the coffee table and sat beside the still figure. He put two fingers to her neck, finding a weak pulse, but there was one and it wasn't so weak as to be life-threatening. He gently stroked her cold, pale cheek, his expression soft, somehow glad that he had saved this child from the depths of the lake. She moaned, beginning to come around, and as her eyes fluttered open he held the tea to her lips.

As she began to regain consciousness, she became aware of the warm tea pouring down her throat, warming her body. The gypsy girl's eyes opened all the way to see a face, the left side revealed, but the right hidden behind a mask of white leather. His face was expressionless, though kind, reserved concern was clear in his icy blue eyes. Those eyes… so familiar, no one else had such eyes, the irises ringed by a darker shade of blue. His wet black waves, the alabaster tone of his skin, the white mask, his very form… she knew him.

"Erik," her lips formed the word, but no sound came out.

He held a spoonful of the soup to her lips which she obediently took and he continued to feed her and give her tea until she slept. Over the next day or so, she drifted in and out of unconsciousness. Erik had finally worked up the courage to get her out of her wet clothing, keeping his eyes averted as he did so. He brushed a strand of raven from her cheek; why was he taking care of her? _Because you want company,_ he told himself, _you want someone to talk to, more than once a week._

"I am tired of being so alone all the time," he muttered.


	3. Dreams of the Past

Nadir Khan, the one friend Erik had ever had, the oldest friend Erik had whom he'd known since his years in Persia, walked through the darkness of the fifth cellar. He met with Erik once a week, to make sure the man was behaving himself, but yesterday had been the scheduled day. He approached Erik's home, knowing the Phantom would not be there to greet him on the dark banks of the lake. Cautiously, Nadir knocked on the door; Erik had been particularly moody since Christine left. That had been barely a week ago, he had met with Erik the day just before that tragedy.

"_Entrez_-_vous_," Erik called; he knew who it was, otherwise he'd have gone to the door.

"Good morning, Erik," Nadir greeted his old friend upon entering.

"You're late," he replied, perched on the edge of the couch, with his back to the Persian.

"I'm aware of that," his guest answered, "I'm afraid I'd forgotten what day it was."

That and he wasn't sure Erik would have wanted his old friend; the day after the mob had besieged his home, Erik had sent a desperate note to Nadir. He was hurt, badly, he was still alive, but very badly hurt and in such physical and emotional pain, he couldn't bear to be alone.

_Madame Giry and her daughter rushed down through the maze of the labyrinth. The angered mob had taken the long way down to the Phantom's domain, ending up on the side across from the Phantom's home. She prayed fervently that they would not be too late, that the mob still hadn't reached their destination. But as she entered the Opera Ghost's home on the lake, she saw she was too late as her eyes fell upon the still form of the Phantom. He was sprawled on the floor, his mask feet from him, his normally well-groomed raven waves disheveled. She knelt beside him, Meg staying just behind, never having seen this man in the flesh. Mme. Giry rolled Erik's still body onto his back and sighed with relief when she saw his chest rising and falling._

_"Meg, help me get him up," Mme. Giry said, putting one of Erik's arms around her shoulders, her daughter getting the other, "We'll get him to his room."_

_And there they laid him in his bed, Mme. Giry instructing her daughter to fetch a bowl of water, then tenderly bathed the Phantom's various wounds. _

Once Erik had awoken, he had dismissed them both, very much capable of taking care of himself, but sent the ballet mistress to Nadir with a note. He wanted to see his old friend; the truth was he was too sore and beaten to properly care for himself. He had loathed to admit it, but he needed someone to care for him until he could do so himself. He had lost so much blood and had still been too weak and dizzy from it, but he didn't want to be burden upon Mme. Giry, she had a job to do and a life to live. Nadir, however, was his conscience and had once had to nurse Erik in Persia when he'd been poisoned. Aside from that, a good number of wounds laid under his clothing, it was highly improper for a woman who was not his wife or lover to see a man undressed. So it had been Nadir and his faithful servant Darius who cared for Erik while he needed another's care. Even when he could very well look after himself, he wanted Nadir to stay; he didn't want to be alone in his misery.

Erik had always borne the pain and hurt alone, but he wanted, needed someone else to comfort him, to help him through this period. Nadir and Darius stayed with Erik, in his lair below the Opera house, Nadir sleeping on the leather couch, despite Erik's protests, with Darius on the floor. They remained the Phantom's house guests until Nadir felt he could trust Erik not to hurt himself, until he felt Erik had healed enough to not attempt suicide. Of course, Erik had done so many times while Nadir was with him, mainly during the night, when his Persian friend was asleep. He'd tried slitting his wrists, but immediately out of second nature, bound the wounds to stop the bleeding. He'd taken the pistol he kept in a bedside drawer, but couldn't summon the strength or will to pull the trigger. He had tried hanging himself, but Nadir had stopped him; his attempts at suicide had failed, but he still did things to hurt himself. He had taken his dagger and sliced at his arm, he had punched the wall until his knuckles ached and bled. He had banged his head against the wall enough leave a bloody gash on his forehead.

There was no telling how many times and how many ways Erik found to hurt himself. And each time, Nadir saw to his wounds and eventually took to sleeping on the floor beside Erik's bed, so he'd be able to keep a closer eye on his old friend. Now, the Opera Ghost sat on the couch beside something lying there. He was still up to his old tricks (nothing would stop him being the Ghost he had become) still sending notes to the managers. Those dreaded notes, reminding them to pay his salary and reserve Box 5, but that was all. Aside from those two things, he did nothing more; no threats, no disasters, nothing.

"Erik," Nadir said, "What did you do this time?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Erik snapped.

"What is under the blanket on the couch?" he asked.

"Not _what_," his old friend answered, "_who_."

"Very well, then, _who_ is under the blanket?"

"A girl." Erik motioned to the figure beside him.

Nadir came closer to stand beside Erik, and looked upon the face of a young girl, perhaps 16 or so.

"I've done nothing, Nadir," Erik whispered, "I saw her beneath the surface of the lake. I saved her. She looks so familiar, but I cannot place her," he looked at her tenderly.

"Are those her clothes by the fire?" Nadir queried suspiciously.

"Yes."

"ERIK! How could you-… I never thought you-… After your years in Persia…!"

"Nadir, calm yourself, I've done nothing of the sort. I had to get her wet clothes off. The poor girl would catch pneumonia, otherwise."

"Wait one moment. Erik- let me get this straight: _you_ are taking care of her?"

"What does it look like, _Daroga_?"

"But… it is not like you! To care for someone you simply pulled out of a lake? You simply wish to be alone."

"Oh, Nadir," he sighed wearily, turning to face his old friend, his face mournful and eyes glistening with unshed tears, "I'm so tired of being alone. You come only once a week to check up on me, but other than that... I'm so tired of my unending loneliness, this eternal darkness. This is the only thing I tire of more than life."

"Erik…" Nadir hesitated, "Did you not notice her earrings? She is a Gypsy. I know that ever since your childhood…"

"What childhood?" Erik snapped bitterly.

"-you have hated her kind," the Persian went on as though he'd not been interrupted.

Erik turned, noticing the two earrings in the girl's left ear: one was the traditional gold hoop, the other was a smaller silver hoop just behind it.

"She just…" he began, stroking her raven hair, "She looks so familiar. I once… a long time ago, when I was still among _them_," he seldom said the word 'Gypsy', "I dreamt of Christine, calling me her 'Angel of Music', how she saw my face and thus feared me, hated me, then this Gypsy girl…"he motioned to the sleeping figure beside him, "She took me into her arms, she kissed my cheek," he lifted his hand to his masked cheek, "Without fear, without disgust. And she held me, comforted me, close and tight. I thought it was naught but a dream, though being among her kind I came to wonder if dreams could be prophetic. Thus far, everything in that dream has been true. And now there is she, this Gypsy that nearly drowned in my lake…" he trailed off, "Perhaps…"

"My apologies, Erik, but I must take my leave of you."

"Very well, until next week then…"

It was during the night, when Erik had retired to his own room, that the Gypsy girl truly woke. She sat up and stood, keeping herself wrapped in the blanket; she vaguely remembered Erik taking care of her, giving her tea and soup, and some elixir, probably to discourage illness. Erik's door was slightly ajar, Erik, himself laid on his bed, face down, snoring slightly, his mask on the floor. He hadn't really meant to sleep; he had simply collapsed, thinking he'd rest his eyes for five minutes. He'd removed his mask, but it had slipped from his hand when he'd fallen asleep. She moved to stand beside him, her hand moving to rest lightly on his back, rubbing his shoulder.

"Erik," she said softly, "Erik?"

Erik woke with a start, the girl taking a few steps back, not expecting his reaction, and he rose to stare at her.

"_Mademoiselle_," he said, "You should not be up, you should be resting."

"I'm sure I've been asleep for more than a day, Erik," she replied.

"A few days actually," he responded, then gave a start when he realized she had said his name, "How did… how do you know my name?"

"Don't you recognize me?" she asked.

"Should I?" he queried in response.

"It's me," she took a step forward, "Clopin."

"Clopin…?"

"Yes, don't you remember? The little girl who had spared from a crowd and who saw you on a regular basis for a time, remember?"

"How can I not? I gave you my cloak as a small token," he smiled, "Clopin? My God, is it really you?"


	4. Love Lost

The girl nodded, smiling, happy that she had found her old friend, while Erik's eyes washed over her.

"I didn't recognize you," he said, "My, my, how you've grown! You were so small."

"I was three!" she remarked.

"Still…" he went on, "You're not so small now. So much of you has changed," he cleared his throat, "You should get dressed. You may use Chris- the guest room."

She nodded, noting his stammer, "All right."

She gathered her now-dry clothes and opened the door of the guest room, stopping to look back toward Erik's own room. Something must have happened in those lost years, something terrible that has to do with the heart… That was his business not hers, still, he was an old friend and friends offered a shoulder to cry on where it was needed. She redressed, still feeling a tad under the weather, but not too badly. Erik sighed; he almost let Christine's name slip, surely Clopin had noticed. He didn't want her to ask, didn't want her to worry, and he couldn't tell her, it was still too painful. Now that he was no longer in such physical pain, his emotional pain was surfacing, threatening to overwhelm him.

Erik and Clopin rekindled their lost friendship and became the very closest of friends. Erik still cooked for her, fussing over her, making sure she was well, if she needed anything, basically what he would've done for Christine. Clopin had a home to go back to, but not near as comfortable as this, and she had missed Erik terribly. She was torn: she had to go home and she didn't want to intrude, but she wanted so much to stay.

"Erik," she approached him, somewhat nervously; he'd been a bit moody lately, "I should probably go."

"Go where?" he asked, looking up from the keys of his organ.

"Home," she replied, "My uncle's probably worried, and I think I've encroached upon you too long."

"Not at all," he protested, rising, "I've been lonely for too long, Clopin, I sorely need the company. I don't want to be alone, anymore, I'm so tired…"

"You want me to stay?" she asked.

"Please," he begged her, "Please stay. You are my friend, my dearest friend."

"Let me just go home and let my uncle know I'm all right," she responded, "And get a few of my own things…"

"No, no, you don't… you don't have to stay if you don't want to."

"Erik, I'd love to stay here. I need to get on my own, anyway, and this," she gestured to their surroundings, "It's so warm and everything's so comfy. I'd love to get used to this. I can't afford such finery and luxury, as a Gypsy."

"So you… you will stay here?"

"…if I haven't overstayed my welcome."

"Clopin, you are always here, _mi casa es su casa_."

Smiling, she left to let her family know she'd found a place of her own, that she was alright, and retrieved a few of her own things and some clothing. She entered what was once Christine's room and began putting her things away and getting settled in.

"You did not have to get any of your clothes," Erik remarked standing in the doorway, "I could easily obtain much nicer clothing for you."

"I don't want you to do that," she protested.

"I am very wealthy and have a…" he hesitated, "an income and I owe so much for protecting me, all those years ago."

She smiled at him, "I still have the cloak you gave to me."

"Do you?"

"I wear it all the time."

"It must be fairly worn out then."

"Not so badly."

Clopin decided to do something with herself and, despite her doubt as to the quality of her voice, auditioned for a part in the chorus. Erik, however, withdrew more to himself; his emotions were eating away at him and beginning to overwhelm him. He locked himself away in his room, eating nothing, sleeping little and fighting the sorrow that needed to be released. All he did, for the most part, was sit at the piano in his room, playing sorrowful to insanely rage-filled pieces. He'd have preferred his organ, its volume would have matched his mood quite well, but it was in the main room. He preferred the confines and privacy of his own room, and he didn't want to disturb Clopin. His sweet, little guardian angel… that's what she'd been ever since sparing him from the crowd, oh so long ago, his _ange__ guardien_. But Clopin was worried, seeing how he had locked himself away, rarely, if ever, emerging from his room. What had happened before she was reunited with her old friend that was causing him such pain?

It was one day, Clopin had just returned from rehearsal to the sound of shattered glass and screams of 'Why, Christine'.

"Why did you leave me?" she heard him yell, "Was my face truly reason enough to betray me?" his voice became hushed, "After all I'd done, all I'd given you… and for what?" again his voice rose, "For betrayal? I gave you so much! I gave you my love, my music! Everything!" his voice lowered, "Everything…"

Enough was enough, she'd stood by watching Erik isolate and lock himself away, but she couldn't just ignore his misery any longer. She approached his door, and gently knocked, not sure he'd even hear her.

"Erik?" she called with no response.

She cautiously entered, stepping carefully around blankets and overturned furniture strewn about the room. She winced as she stepped on pieces of a broken vase, but spotted Erik at his piano, his fists pounding on the keys in frustration.

"Christine…" he muttered.

Clopin approached him, and lightly rested a hand on his shoulder, but he jerked away and stood, knocking over the piano bench, to sit on his bed. She followed, concerned for him and pushing concern for her own safety aside, and sat beside him.

"Just leave me!" Erik snapped at her.

"No," she replied her voice quiet, "Whatever happened, Erik… you're in dire need of comfort. You can't keep it bottled up inside, it'll only get worse."

He knew she was right, but tears were signs of weakness, weren't they? Before he could respond, she turned him to her and pulled him into her arms, despite his half-hearted struggles to get away.

Erik tried to fight, but how could he turn away from the comfort of another? To be held in another's arms? He had always been denied that and his shattered sorely needed comfort. He relented and let Clopin hold him close, just as she had in his apparently prophetic dream. A few stray tears rolled down his cheeks, onto Clopin's arm; he was crying, but still held back when he needed to let it go.

"Go ahead and cry, Erik," she whispered, "Tears are not only for the weak. They cleanse the soul and release sorrow, and I can tell you desperately need it."

With those words, he released all restraint and held Clopin tight and close, his head cushioned against her chest. He buried his face in the soft cloth of her blouse, his strong form shuddering under the weight of his anguish and misery. She tenderly rubbed his back, rocking back and forth with him as a mother would a child.


End file.
